


Manning

by Nana_41175



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Falconry, M/M, captive hearts snippets, manning - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-07-16
Updated: 2015-07-16
Packaged: 2018-04-09 15:40:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,261
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4354670
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nana_41175/pseuds/Nana_41175
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Snippets from Captive Hearts involving John's time with Monseigneur in previous chapters.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Manning

This is for **Senorakitty** , who dropped me a note to say,

_You know what I think about a lot with Captive Hearts? John talking to Azrael. Like whenever he gets angry with something Sherlock, or the other royalty does he goes to Azrael's cage and talks about it with the raptor._

Yes, he does, my dear! 

Author's Notes at the end.

~~~~~@~~~~~

Early into their acquaintance, John made a fundamental mistake about Azrail.

"She's so tame," he could not help but marvel as he watched the hawk being fed.

Even then, John was aware of just how relative "tame" meant as he watched Azrail tear enthusiastically into the dead quail beneath her taloned feet-- a small consolation gift to make up for Monseigneur's absence. Indeed, that had been the reason why John had come to the mews: to bring notice that Monseigneur would not be taking Azrail out for the day.

Monseigneur was in one of his peculiar moods. The git had holed himself up once again in the dungeons, too absorbed with whatever he was doing down there to emerge for proper meals, let alone pay any attention to John or anyone else, including the poor creature that he affectionately called _mon couer._

It was apparent that the man could live without a heart, John thought sourly. He did not know why he should feel so disgruntled; perhaps (and he was being honest with himself here) it had a lot to do with the fact that Monseigneur had expressly forbidden him to venture down into the bowels of the Lair.

Still, Monseigneur's temporary disappearance meant that he had more freedom to move around and, except for the dungeons, he was allowed to go about the Lair and explore as he wished. Best of all, he could go about it alone-- an implicit act of kindness and trust on Billy's part.

So now he was in the mews, helping Billy with this little errand. He found that he actually liked coming here; he liked the familiar camaraderie of the men who, like Monseigneur's common soldiers, John could easily relate to.

Eustace, Monseigneur's chief falconer, took John's announcement with equanimity-- no doubt he was used to his master's erratic schedule, and his lot was not to question why. John realized that he had yet to learn this important lesson, and he knew it would not be an easy path. Add to that the fact that John burned with a dangerous curiosity with regards Monseigneur and everything he did, and the result was a disaster waiting to unfold.

 _What can that git be doing in the dungeons?_ wondered John, perhaps for the thousandth time. What was down there that he was not allowed to see?

In his quest to find out, John had even tried to fish out some information from Eustace by asking offhandedly, "you ever wonder why he spends so much time down there?"

It was a mad gamble. John wondered if any details of his furtive investigations might reach Monseigneur's ears. It was highly likely that Monseigneur would get wind of it, sooner or later.

Eustace--ever the loyal servant-- merely brushed away the query with a bland, noncommittal reply, focusing instead on John's earlier observation of Azrail. "Don't let her fool you, John Watson," he said. "Believe me, you've not seen her during her bad days. And there are quite a lot of those."

"No, I mean--"

"I know what you mean, mate," said Eustace, "but the thing is, you've only ever seen her with Monseigneur."

John licked his lips, suddenly intrigued. "Oh? And what is she like away from She-- milord?"

John had only been a few weeks in the Lair, and it would take a while for him to wrap his mind-- much less his tongue-- around the concept of calling the man who had bound him in such dubious terms as Monseigneur. Yet it was fact that Sherlock was lord and master of everyone here, from Lady Hudson right down to the lowliest stable hands. And beyond the Lair, he was nothing less than a prince of the realm.

These were the moments when John was reminded, suddenly and acutely, that he was very far from home indeed.

John watched, his heart suddenly fisting in his chest, as Eustace gave a pause at his words before replying carefully, "well, goshawks are notoriously difficult to man, as we call it. You can't really tame one. Some falconers don't want to have anything to do with them altogether. For those unused to them, they're seen as paranoid and mad fairly half the time, and to have them murdering things is just about the only way to appease them, but to those who know them like Monseigneur..."

Eustace droned on, though John found himself only half-listening as his mind snagged around that one word, uttered in passing: _Murder._

It made perfect sense, John thought. He did not know Monseigneur all that long, but this much he knew about him already: Monseigneur was the type of man who would feel a perfect kinship with a being intent on bloody murder.

 _What do these people make of their master then?_ John wondered as he watched Eustace talk on. They served him more than willingly. Certainly there was fear there, but also a great deal of respect and admiration, even adoration. _And what does this make of me, if such a realization of the man whom I must call master fills me not with disgust but...something else?_

Beside John and his bluntness of speech, Eustace seemed like a polished diplomat. No doubt his job meant that he'd been around royalty almost his entire life. John recognized in Eustace's words yet another artful dodge around the prickly topic of Monseigneur, but something in Eustace's careful tone made John realize-- as no other gesture can-- the precariousness of his present situation. Eustace seemed not to have noticed John's small slip of the tongue around Sherlock's name, but John knew otherwise. Perhaps he was being overly suspicious, but it was there in Eustace's gaze-- in everyone's gaze, though some were better at hiding it than others. It was quite natural that there would be curiosity and speculation behind the polite facade.

Certainly, everyone in the castle had their instructions. _Do try to extend him every courtesy_ had been Monseigneur's order with regards John when he'd first arrived, and John had met with nothing less from these strangers who were Monseigneur's people. In fact they had closed ranks around him almost protectively, treating him as one of their own from the start, yet the questions remained behind those friendly eyes: _who is John Watson? What is he doing here if he's Angrian?_

Lady Hudson, Billy and Molly had taken pains to spread the word that John had healed Monseigneur of a fever, and there the matter was settled. Yet John doubted if even Lady Hudson was aware of the circumstances of his first meeting with Monseigneur in the rain; the tactics Monseigneur had employed to press him into his service, and the subsequent treatment he had been made to endure in Monseigneur's hands.

John had to close his eyes as he thought about Monseigneur's hands.

_His touch, so light. Fleeting. Never enough. Like his voice, his gaze._

Monseigneur was diabolically clever. He was used to dabbling in smoke and mirrors. There was nothing concrete in his outward dealings with John to hint at anything inappropriate. His private scenes with John were another matter entirely, but nobody knew about those. Nobody needed to know. And yet, John was sure there was a great deal of talking behind closed doors. While Lady Hudson and the others were far too loyal to ever countenance the idea, John knew that down in the servants' quarters, safe from prying ears, rumors ran rampant. He could imagine the same questions being whispered, again and again, with some new ones as time went by: _Who is John Watson? What is he doing, sleeping in Monseigneur's chambers?_

For John, of the dubious past and uncertain future, one thing was suddenly clear. He had only the present, the here and now, and he would have to make the most of it regardless of what was thrown his way. Other people's gossip was the least of his worries. Whatever course his life had been taking before he got lost in the forest to emerge on the other side, Fate had snatched him from it and he was now entirely in the hands of a foreign, dark prince.

He came out of his reverie to hear Eustace say, "...but then there's only one way to ensure a hawk's obedience."

"And what's that?" John asked.

"Keep her hungry enough." Eustace gave a jerk of his chin towards Azrail, who had eaten her fill of the quail. "You'll see why in a minute."

"Oi, Eustace!" One of the men called from the doorway.

"Be back in a moment, John," Eustace said as he moved away, and John was suddenly alone with the hawk.

There was silence for a few minutes as John gazed in wonder at the raptor standing before him. Azrail, of the grey and white barred feathers and those orange-red eyes, was a sight to behold. She reminded John of a glorious winter sunset. Also, he could see what Eustace meant. Sated and content, Azrail was done with humans. She ignored John and became still and distant as she retreated into her own twilight world on the verge of sleep.

John opened his mouth and said the first thing that came to mind: "I'm sorry he's not coming. He's..."

He felt foolish, though it was oddly soothing, talking to a bird in his native tongue, as though Azrail would know anything about Angria.

No, she was probably from somewhere else-- hadn't Billy said she was a gift from Monseigneur's uncle, the King of Gondal? Yet John was sure she would have something in common with him: a knowledge of the pine forests, deep and dark and silent. Home. How old had she been when she was plucked from the nest in the trees high above the ground? Had she fought the rough hands that came seemingly from nowhere to bundle her away in a woven basket, to a different world full of noise and distressing human voices and shapes entirely alien and alarming? Had she been terrified? She must have been, and her vision must have been sealed away, just like Billy had described: her eyelids had been stitched closed and opened just enough while she was being trained to control what she saw.

Had she seen Monseigneur the way John had first beheld him?

_Dressed entirely in black, astride that demon of a horse as dark as its master._

She must have had her first sight of him up close, with her on his gloved fist, the jesses tied to her feet ensuring that she could not fly away as her eyes were made to see that masked face for the first time. How she must have bated and bated, struggling to get away, and realizing to her horror that she could not. All Monseigneur would ever need to do was tighten his grip on her jesses.

As for John, he remembered emerging from the forest, blinking and dazed to be under the gray skies for the first time in days, and starving, only to meet and struggle with Monseigneur in the rain.

Come to think of it, John had more in common with Azrail than he had first imagined. Yet there were differences.

_The clash of their swords, and Monseigneur's masked face, not far from his, the naked astonishment etched on those features that no mask could conceal; their breaths mingling in that one instant before they broke apart, only to come together again in a burst of steel upon steel._

And he had not looked upon that face with horror.

John shook away the memories and the slow, belated realization that he was in the hands of a man who knew exactly what he was doing when it came to taming wild creatures.

John was being manned.

 _Keep her hungry_ , Eustace had said of Azrail. It was Monseigneur's tactic with John as well, involving a hunger that was not entirely physical.

Never enough. He knew now that he would never have enough of Monseigneur.

Yet John was a man, not a hawk. There was a huge difference right there with regards how he ought to be handled. Monseigneur had his work cut out for him.

"Your master is an idiot," John told Azrail, and smiled.

~~~~~@~~~~~

**Author's Notes:**

Some falconry terms used in the chapter:

 **Manning** is an essential part of falconry training that refers to the acclimation of a falconry bird to living and working with humans and things typically associated with humans, such as other pets, houses, etc. The better manned a falconry bird is, the more calm and less likely it will be to engage in a fight or flight response around people.

A  **jess**  (plural "jesses") is a thin strap, traditionally made from leather, used to tether a [hawk](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Hawk) or falcon. Jesses allow a falconer to keep control of a bird while it is on the glove or in training, and allow a bird to be secured on a perch outside its aviary.

 **Bating** \- Attempting to fly from the fist or perch, while still attached. This can happen if the bird is startled, upset, fearful or impatient to be flying.

A  **mews**  is a multi-unit housing facility for hawks, falcons, etc.


End file.
